


Lullaby

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-24
Updated: 2010-06-24
Packaged: 2017-10-10 06:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This wasn't the desperate neediness of daylight hours; it was the settling of skin against skin, the passing of breath from mouth to lips to tongue, becoming liquid and intoxicating in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this kink meme prompt, although it turned a bit strange near the end: Write me some H/W porn, wherein half-awake, middle of the night, random horniness leads to super-hot sleepy/dreamy sex. I want warm, comfortable, established relationship. Post-case, everyone is all broken and tired and utterly sleep deprived.

Watson passed out on his bed, feeling vaguely smug that he managed to make it to a bed; Holmes, he was sure, would wind up on the floor, if he ever did fall asleep. Therefore it was a bit of a surprise when he was woken by clever fingers ghosting along his side. His eyes wouldn't open more than halfway, and even then were fuzzy with the haze of sleep, but he didn't need to see to identify those hands. He sighed as he moved, a languid arch into faint touches, and heard Holmes catch his breath, his fingers speaking for him, asking with each stroke and press and tracing, _here? Here? More?_ And Watson's body answered back, each twist and shift a reply; _there, oh, there, yes_. This wasn't the desperate neediness of daylight hours; it was the settling of skin against skin, the passing of breath from mouth to lips to tongue, becoming liquid and intoxicating in the process. It was the skim of whorled fingertips down skin, mapping out each inch, learning the texture of each hair, each scar, each imperfection made perfect, translating them from the language of sight into that of touch, and only a beat later they become poetry in the language of taste. Lips do not kiss; they brush against fevered skin, whispering of words not meant for ears to hear, leaving a trail of moist redness, Braille indented into the cure of the spine. Bodies do not meet; they become immaterial, flicks of flame replacing the rush of blood, malleable water substituting for membrane, bones mingling, passing from one to another as bodies become one, sliding into each other, aligned, with each heartbeat stuttering through them both. There is no thrust, only the slide of cocks, the arch of backs, the roll of hips, the half breathed sighs and inaudible moans and gasps of completion buried in shoulders and smothered in darkness becoming a lullaby for devils.


End file.
